


Amihan's Treasure

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Background Slash, Captain Mycroft - Freeform, Crew as Family, Drama, Eventual Happy Ending, Found Family, His Work Just Happens To Be Piracy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kid John Watson, Kidnapping, Like Seriously I Hope You Are Not Here For Mystrade, Mycroft Does His Best, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mycroft's motives are ineffable, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parental Mrs. Hudson, Past Child Abuse, Pirate Sherlock, Pirates, Sherlock is Married to His Work, Sherlock is on the Autism Spectrum, Slow Build, not historically accurate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23319469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sherlock will solve the mystery of John Watson. He is the most interesting human being on the face of Sherlock's earth andhe will solve him.*In which a young John Watson is captured and set aboard a pirate ship and Sherlock is endlessly intrigued.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. Capture and Departure

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is a bit of a passion project of mine. I hope to update at least once a week (at the very least!). Feel free to bounce any suggestions or questions you have off me. I'm always happy to talk with you!
> 
> Fair warning. This story will eventually delve into John's past, which was not the perfect picture of childhood. Please read the tags and stay safe.
> 
> Salud!

> Dearest of the Amihan,  
>  I hope this letter finds you in good health. We depart at nineteen hundred. Those tarty will not be missed.  
>  Sincerely,  
>  _Captain M. Holmes_  
> 

Homes’ crew had spent three precious days in the sunny warmth of Barcelona, spending their myriad of treasures on fine alcohol and food. Those of the Amihan were glad to have their feet on solid ground and to enjoy the payoff of their questionable deeds, but no protest was heard when a note found its way around the city calling all to return at once. Captain Holmes often set off without more than a half day’s notice and his handpicked crew were more than willing to drop everything to get their next fix by way of the open sea.

Captain M Holmes was a hardened man with little compassion left in his hollow chest cavity. He ordered men to walk the plank, signed prisoners’ papers to enemy ships, and claimed riches from any ship unfortunate enough to cross paths with the Amihan. All without the blink of an eye. It was for this reason that his crew’s hearts, also cold with past immoral acts, did not lose rhythm when an eleven years old boy was taken aboard for ransom. 

It was custom to acquire at least one prisoner for ransom whenever the crew stopped in a new city. They always landed where the rich and lacking reside for that reason. The captive was always between fifteen and twenty eight years old and was selected by the Captain himself. It was this selection process that made capture a form of recruitment; though it should be noted no man existed on the Amihan for more than a few months against his will. He was either bought back by his eager-to-pay relatives, recruited as crew member--granted he was willing to become a totally faithful member of the Amihan--or dropped off in the next port city if the first options were refused. Some believed these “options” were put in place to help the Captain sleep at night, but that was so far from the truth it was laughable.

Though it broke the status quo, an eleven year old being forced into the ship by Holmes' knife-wielding, right hand woman brought about no fuss. The Captain always had his reasons for what he did; if you were employed by Holmes, you best learn not to ask too many questions.

There was one man, however, that had no qualms verbally sparring with Holmes: his brother. If the Captain wasn’t so respected and feared among his crew, Sherlock would have been tossed into the ocean to rot years ago. Not one crew member would spend more than an hour with Sherlock, and most did not last half as long. It was often said that while fascinating, he was about as friendly as Bermuda and one should never sail too close to his edges. 

It was collectively accepted that both Holmes were best in small doses. Apart, they were barbed and unappealing to the masses. Together, they were liable to eviscerate all that stood between them. Lestrade was among the few who had learned the hard way that you do not interfere with a Holmesian Spar.

There was little doubt that Sherlock would have commented on the age of the child being brought aboard that day had he been above deck. Goodness knows the man would not have forgone any chance to pick his pompous brother apart for his morally questionable choices. Such decisions troubled the older Holmes only when Sherlock spoke to them, and for that it was a common topic between them.

Sherlock was instead spending departure time in his room, assumed to be doing some such experiment. He had not left the ship, so far as anybody knew. The Captain, too, was nowhere to be found. The crew did little to comment on either of their absences.

*

The blonde haired boy in a button-up blue jacket and true leather shoes was being forced down a walkway to the ports of Barcelona, though no man minding his own would have thought anything particular about the female-child pair making their way down the tourist section of the popular city. No one on average intelligence would have ever guessed the hand on the small of the child’s back was adorned with a recently sharpened blade.

It became clear as they neared the dock that the child was being led to the sea port holding a grand wind-powered beast with sails that snapped like angry horses at the bit. It stood taller than any other ship docked at the time and most people seemed to be giving it a wide berth. The boy marveled at the grandness of it, in spite of himself. 

Once the two made it to the boat, he was shooed up the ramp to the deck and led down the nearest hallway. At the end of the stretch, the boy was shoved down a set of stairs and pressed into a room with no light save for a window smaller than the boy’s head on the far side. It was more a sectioned off part of the hold than anything resembling proper quarters and it stunk of alcohol, but it had a clean bed and a desk big enough for two sheets of parchment to lay horizontally across the surface. The room was much more glorious than other ships had to offer for their ransom goods, not that the boy had any previous knowledge of the captive quarters of a pirate ship.

John Watson, an eleven year old boy with little more than a primary school education under his belt, stumbled into his prison with a sharp intake of breath. John desperately wanted to cry but he refused to give the woman the satisfaction. When he turned around to face her, the woman smiled sharply at him and said something in Spanish before slamming the door and securing the lock.

*

Sherlock Holmes didn't take orders from anyone except Mycroft. It was for this reason, and this reason alone, that Sherlock ranked higher than most men aboard the Amihan. It was entirely unofficial, of course, because the Captain would never appoint anyone so disagreeable and devoid of respect to any position of power. But Sherlock rarely had to complete menial tasks such as dishes or cleaning, and for that he was second to only the Captain himself.

That did not mean Sherlock was completely free-range. When Sherlock was in a foul mood and had dolled out a particularly nasty verbal attack to either the crew or the captain, Mycroft played the Captain Card. And Sherlock obeyed. To an extent.

*

After taking a few deep breaths to steady his shaky hands, John walked as calmly as he could manage to the back of the room and surveyed his surroundings. The aforementioned bed sat in the back left corner and was not quite as long as the width of the room. This created a pocket of space between the bed and the right wall. Feeling it was safer than standing out in the open, John slid down into a sitting position and scooched his back up against the right wall, successfully positioning himself so he could easily see an attack from any angle. He knew putting himself in a corner opened him up to being overwhelmed, but he had no chance of overpowering his captors if he was unprotected on all sides. 

After a few more moments of calming himself down, John began taking stock of his situation. The door was obviously locked and John wasn’t sure he had the skill to avoid the crew members enough to get off the boat. This meant escape was not a viable option. Sleeping seemed even more dangerous than planning an escape, what with the entire crew above him. He could not leave himself defenseless for any measure of time.

John decided there was nothing to do but wait. Maybe his father would notice he was gone and come looking for him. Perhaps his sister would be sober enough to be concerned when she lugged herself through the front door again this evening. Even if neither of them were the next to open the door standing between him and a very stupid getaway move, John hoped whomever entered next were at least a little less threatening than that woman. She went a bit overkill on the intimidation, seeing as though he is an eleven year old with a bum shoulder. Maybe she was making up for the fact that she was female. John was personally scared of anyone with a knife, but he supposed not every man could say the same.

*

It is not Sherlock's fault Hooper was such a softie. If she hadn't sobbed all over the place after he made a few deductions about her misplaced infatuations, Sherlock would not be carrying a tray to their new captive like a godforsaken lady in waiting. Alas, his fat brother had a tendency to punish honesty. Honesty that ended in tears, anyway.

Shifting the tray of food to one hand, Sherlock stuck the key into the door with practiced ease. Despite his hatred for lower work, Sherlock was too stuck in his ways for him to do anything to remedy his attitude. He had said to his insufferable brother on multiple occasions that he would rather scrub the deck on hands and knees than give up his colorful attitude, so it did not surprise Sherlock to find himself in this position once more.

He opened the door just enough to slip through, scanning the room before making any move to set the tray down on the desk. The last time Mycroft sent him down here, Sherlock got a very colorful black eye because someone decided to get cocky and try to make a run for it. In the middle of the ocean. Imbecile.

Instead of identifying the captive quickly and making his leave like he expected to, Sherlock had to give a double take to the very intriguing boy who was now standing with his back flat against the far wall.

“Well hello there,” Sherlock murmured at the interesting specimen while he set down the tray absentmindedly. “Mycroft has indeed outdone himself.”

The boy, who was nothing if not polite, replied softly, “Hello,” though he did not lower his gaze in a show of respect or fear. How Sherlock loves a contradiction.

The boy was not poor, but definitely more middle class than Mycroft’s usual. He was a bit younger, as well, but that could be overlooked in favor of the fascination factor of the specimen before him. Sherlock was tempted to assume the boy’s parents had some sort of high paying job, judging by his fairly expensive brand of shoes and the fact that he was not from Barcelona. That didn't take into account, however, the child’s jumper. It was clearly older than the rest of his attire but was well cared for. Sentiment? After analyzing his clothes, Sherlock glanced at the boy’s face once more. Despite his strong stance, his expression seemed to be oscillating between fearful and confused. If his placement in the room was anything to go by, he was expecting an attack. Not an unfair assumption to have on a pirate ship.

So, not overly rich, but upper middle class with an extra penny left around for emergencies and comfortable luxury. Independent and experienced in a fight, but underdressed for such a demeanor. He undoubtedly was more dangerous than he was willing to let on but too prideful to play the weeping child card. 

For some reason, Sherlock had the strong urge to introduce himself to this boy. He never made a habit of talking to their soon-to-be-ransomed, mostly because his brother picked up rich idiot bastards with parents willing to throw money at their ship and never tell a soul. Said people were often spoiled and pompous and predictable and boring. Sure, the odd stray would be recruited as crew. But those people were hand-picked, few, and far-between. His brother took prisoners for money or work. They didn’t need workers right now and Mycroft surely knew the boy's parents were not rich. This boy was a beautiful puzzle waiting to be put together and Sherlock was enrapt.

“My name is Sherlock,” he said in English, and the boy started, apparently expecting Spanish. Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes; it was obvious he wasn’t native to Barcelona. Given his yet to solidify tan lines, he hadn’t been there long enough to pick up the language enough to have a competent conversation. He also was adorned in glaringly obvious British clothing. After a pregnant pause, Sherlock rolled his eyes and prompted, “And you are…”

That snapped the boy out of his silent spell and he straightened up, which was a tall feat considering he was already as close to attention Sherlock had ever seen a child. “John Watson, sir.” 

How grotesquely formal. Sherlock made a face.

“Oh, um-” John flustered, looking around the room as if magical words on the wall were going to soften Sherlock’s features. After a moment, he seemed to have found what he was looking for, saying, “Sherlock, I mean.”

At that, Sherlock’s face slid into pure intrigue. After another cursory glance, he turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving his relatively intelligent walking contradiction behind. He had a puzzle to solve and he could not do it without processing the data.

*


	2. Investigation of a Singular Boy

John Watson was many things, but dumb was not one of them. Headstrong, sure. Liable to get in over his head, definitely. But John prided himself on his ability to think quickly and get himself out of any situation he found himself in. 

But even with his above-average knowledge of pirates, John didn’t have a clue how he was going to think his way out of this one.

He had read about the dangers of pirate ships in primary school. With the development of steam engines, most pirate ships were overpowered and incarcerated by various countries. Despite this, some of the more influential and dangerous pirates mysteriously disappeared or were aquitted of their crimes just days after capture. After such a monumental governmental slip up, people generally agreed that anyone left roaming the sea was powerful enough to be left alone. As long as their actions remained under the table and out to sea, pirates were allowed to do what they wished.

It was not just school books that worried him. His great aunt had taken great care to warn him about the dangers of piracy. She told John at the tender age of six that her father was a true rat of the ocean himself and committed all sorts of atrocious deeds. John remembered her saying one evening, “ ‘E swiped naughty little boys like you right off the streets! ‘E throw a bag over their heads and stuff ‘em in bilge. Don’t know how many lived to tell the tale, God rest their souls.” His Father lumbered through the door a moment later and he told John Aunt Betty didn’t know a pirate from the Queen’s behind. John never took Aunt Betty’s stories too much to heart, anyway, though that was something he sorely regreted a sitting in a pirate's prison cell in the middle of nowhere.

John attempted to take his mind off the probability of survival by climbing up onto his bed and peering out the window. The land he stood on just hours before was shrinking into a tiny blob in the distance. John couldn’t even make out the large docking area anymore.

In the darkness of the setting sun and the newly found speed of the ship pulling him farther and farther from the world he knew, John startled himself with a silent sob. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he watched the ground that held his drunk sister and absent father disappear between curtains of night and over the horizon. 

His family may have been terrible-- “Don’t talk so loud, Johnny. We’re not terrible!” His sister slurred as she wobbled up the stairs at two in the morning, “Just a bit shitty,”--but they were the only people he had. Platonic relationships in John’s life were like dandelions in a garden, liable to get weeded out by the end of the week. But family? That was forever. Until death did them part, the Watsons stuck together. Through the alcohol and the constant moving and hurtful words. The only Watson John had ever known to break that rule was his mother, but she isn’t a Watson anymore so maybe that didn’t count.

John quickly wiped away his tears. It wasn’t time to feel sorry for himself. If there was a way back home, he was going to find it - maybe even before his family got too worried. It was the Watson way.

*

Sherlock wanted to bang his head against the wall. Unfortunately, he had extensively tested the helpfulness of doing so a couple months back and brain jarring proved to hinder brain function more than sitting in suffering silence.

There were only two explanations for the appearance of John on the Amihan. Either Mycroft had deduced some large sum of money somewhere out of the boy’s family tree that Sherlock failed to see, or his brother had procured this anomaly just for Sherlock to wonder about. Mycroroft must have seen how interesting the boy was, but he rarely focused on such things unless said eccentricities could be exploited in one way or another. And Sherlock couldn’t see anything worth exploiting!

Sherlock didn’t understand.

John had no obvious knowledge Mycroft would want, he was physically unable to perform for the crew, and he was a child. A child! What did Mycroft want with a child?

Maybe he has an estranged relation to royalty? Unlikely, but Sherlock was running out of options. John is a rich-poor, young-smart, polite-violent, angry-mild-mannered boy who had a tendency to seek out the corner of a room even if it left him, for lack of a better word, cornered. 

What he really wanted to do was sit and stare at John until he revealed his importance on the Amihan. The answer was bound to be in the dirt on his cuff or the scratch on his shoe. Sherlock had to find a way to get there without alerting the crew. If he started turning up willingly to feed the prisoner, Mycroft would be the first to know. Then the jollocks would think Sherlock was interested or intrigued or some such nonsense. Sherlock would not let his egoist brother think he had bested him, not ever.

*

It was getting darker by the minute and shadows jumped and grew as they sailed farther out to sea. John couldn’t make out anything outside his window anymore except the rolling waves reflecting fragmented bits of moonlight through his window. It was a meager light source in his solitary space, but he was grateful for its presence nonetheless. He would rather deal with a few living shadows than total darkness. 

Despite the loneliness of the world outside his window, the deck above John was swimming with sounds. The wood was constantly creaking and there were footsteps heard above his head at all times.

“Men, reef the sails! I don’t like her speed tonight.”

“Donaven! I said reef, not furl! If you keep this up, you’ll bring us to a standstill and the Captain will have my head!”

It was a bit comforting, knowing he was not all alone. His interaction with Sherlock was hours ago. It wasn’t that John was unused to being alone; he usually spent most of his days by himself. But at least at home he had the option to see people. Despite Sherlock’s rush to leave, he did take care to lock the door behind him, John had checked.

The food Sherlock had left on his desk looked fine - it consisted of hardish bread, some sort of dried fruit and a mug of water - but John refused to eat any of it. Drugging was not above pirates, no matter how fancy.

*

The night crew were all idiots. Granted, most everyone was, but the night crew especially. Sherlock had begged Mycroft to behead them all at one point or another. They blew off course, destroyed his perfect knots, and drove them into untimely storms. (Mycroft has told Sherlock on multiple occasions the weather was not the crew's fault and if Sherlock was so smart he should go find another set of people willing to operate a pirate ship in the dark.)

The only positive note to being surrounded by stupidity at any time was the simplicity of fooling them. Sherlock almost laughed at the ease of sneaking into the hold with the keys. Sneaking was almost a generous word given the circumstances. It would be more accurate to say Sherlock waltzed under their noses while they yelled orders at each other.

He bounded down the stairs to John's room with the keys held securely in his hand to avoid jingling. Sherlock made no effort to announce himself as he unlocked the oak door and pulled it open. 

John was exactly where Sherlock thought he would be (on the bed) doing exactly what he knew he'd be doing (not sleeping). Scanning the room, Sherlock scowled at the plate of perfectly good food John had neglected to eat. They would have killed John much faster than poison if they wanted him dead.

What Sherlock did not expect, however, was the lack of surprise on John's face. It was as if John had been expecting him, what with his superior expression and set shoulders. John moved to stand.

“Hi again,” John chirped, as if Sherlock was not here between midnight and morning light and possibly a threat. His words completely contrasted with his stance, which was now very formal and battle ready. Sherlock was thinking perhaps Mycroft did take this boy purely for his intrigue. Sherlock would have.

“Hello, John,” he said with a smile that meant to mimic reassurance. Unfortunately, Sherlock had been informed many a time it was more off-putting than anything. “I trust you are well?”

John barked out a startled laugh at that. “Yeah, just dandy, thanks. The food was just delicious, by the way. I really enjoyed the part where I was too delirious to fight your whims.”

Sherlock lost control of his expression for a moment, eyes widening in realization. This boy thought they were drugging him, not poisoning. That was very interesting. Drugging was hardly a common thing, especially in civilized England.

Regaining his composure, Sherlock stalked over to the desk and pulled out the chair. He would sit here until he had won this game, then he would go back up to his quarters and sleep. And then he could be exceedingly smug in Mycroft's direction.

Taking a piece of bread and tossing it in his mouth. “We do not want you delirious,” he said after swallowing. “That would be most inconvenient.”

John, apparently feeling less threatened by the show of good faith, slowly sat back down on the bed. “And what would it be inconvenient for, exactly?”

“Ransom, probably,” Sherlock sighed. He still did not know if that was true, in fact it probably was not, but it seemed as good a lie as any to dredge up information about the boy's family.

“My father won't even notice I'm gone for a couple more days and my sister's home less than him. Why me?”

Ah, how predictable children were.

“Does your father have money, John?”

John shrugged. “He liked to think so. I've heard people say it's all new money and it's not worth a drop in the bucket, but I have more clothes than the common folk so that's something.”

That's what Sherlock thought! There really wasn't any monetary reason to kidnap John. He needed more data.

“This sister. An alcoholic, I presume?”

“Um, yeah.”

“And wh-”

“Wait!” John's face was clicking through so many emotions it distracted Sherlock just to count them. “How did you know that?”

Sherlock often forgets the whole world is not used to his genius. The crew is all he has known for many months and they are far too used to his intellect to be impressed by it.

“I didn't know. I deduced. Your weariness around me indicates past violence at the hands of an individual older than yourself - a reason to be untrustworthy around superiors. Instead of running, you have developed an instinct to stand your ground, something no child under fifteen has with an alcoholic father. You did not mention a mother when you listed the people most likely to pay for your absence, indicating her death or estrangement. Additionally, your manner closed off when you mentioned your sister, which generally gave it away. You do not approve of her life choices and it has caused you personal pain. Therefore, alcoholic.”

John blinked at Sherlock with wide eyes. Sherlock worried for a moment that he broke the child. He was not entirely convinced he had not when he saw a smile tugging at the corners of John's lips. 

“That was brilliant!”

Sherlock balked. That was, by far, the most contrary reaction he has ever received for his deductions. He was tempted to ask John if he had been diagnosed with madness. “Excuse me?”

“That. Was. Brilliant. My father lives with us and I don't think he's figured it out yet. Granted, he's usually sleeping when she gets home. You did get one thing wrong, though.”

“Did I?” Sherlock leaned forward to inspect the boy more closely.

“Yeah, my father is a big drinker, too. He's just not a violent one.”

Sherlock could almost hear Mycroft saying, ‘Don't make assumptions, Sherlock. Any common man can guess.’

“There's always something,” Sherlock sighed.

*

Sherlock showing up in the middle of the night was less surprising than it could have been. John expected an interrogation, after all.

John had not planned to be so honest in answering Sherlock's questions, but there was something about the curly haired pirate that compelled him to do so. His face was so expressive under his mask of indifference; John found himself giving answers without thinking much about it just to see an eyebrow quirk or mouth twitch.

What did startle him, though, were Sherlock’s ‘deductions’. John did not think he would live to see the day an adult spoke to him about his family’s issues. Grownups, even the smart ones, had a way of ignoring such things and hoping they’d go away. John has long since learned not to bother adults for answers to questions they refused to ask themselves.

John couldn’t believe how clever Sherlock was. He assumed pirates, as a rule, were ruthless and heavy and violent, but Sherlock seemed to be none of those things. He was lacking in tact, certainly, but he was not threatening John at all. In fact, Sherlock seemed to be making a point of getting no closer than the chair on the other side of the room allowed.

Sherlock was very put together, too. His curly hair lay in a halo around his face, framing his sharp eyes and softening his features. He wore a pristine white shirt tucked neatly into high waisted navy pants with gold buttons. His feet, one held high by his crossed legs, were adorned with black heeled boots with gold embroidered patterns on the toe. 

John did not know why Sherlock was staring at him like his face was a lost forgen language, but he found the attention less concerning that he thinks he should. If Sherlock was just going to sit there and stare at him, there was nothing he could do, John reasoned with himself.

Instead of worrying about it too much, he stared back into Sherlock's greenish blue eyes. This was another waiting game and John excelled at those. He could only hope the man would tire before him; it was coming morning and John had not slept a wink.

*


	3. The Captain and the Cook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any suggestions? Want to talk about the story? Message me at atouchofcommonsense@gmail.com!!!!

John awoke to the sound of polite tapping on the floor. Despite the quietness of the sound, John was immediately awake and alert, scanning the room for danger. He did not recall falling asleep. The last thing he remembered was relaxing back against the wall as Sherlock's eyes darted around his person then unfocused repeatedly. He must have drifted off despite himself.

The tapping did happen to be one of great concern, John found as he bolted upright to find a man that he had never seen before standing before his bed with a huge sword that had ceased its tapping upon John’s movement. The man was tall, wearing a fitted grey coat with silver clasps, and held an err of superiority that John detested instantly. His stance was insultingly relaxed; he acted as if John was about as much of a threat as a dead fly. Given the position John was in at the moment -sitting with his back pressed against the wall opposite to the man- he was probably right.

“John Hamish Watson,” the man drawled in a rich english accent, with a smile that could freeze equatorial waters.“Your reputation precedes you.”

Grossly confused and disoriented, John could do nothing but stare at the sword-wielder. 

“You shall refer to me as Captain Holmes,” the man continued after receiving no response. “You are aboard the Amihan and that is where you will remain for quite some time. Meals will be brought to you three times a day: No more, no less. Your survival is not my primary concern, though I do hold a modicum of importance to it so if you are ill or injured, inform one of my crew and you will seen to, eventually. You are not to leave this room without my personal approval and failure to comply with any of these terms will end very badly for you indeed.”

At the threat, John narrowed his eyes at this ‘Captain Holmes’ and slowly began to rise from his bed. Holmes took a small step back with raised eyebrows but said nothing.

Once he was standing in front of the man, who now looked more than a foot taller than him and and no doubt ten times stronger, John spoke. “I understand your terms, sir. That does not mean I accept them.”

The man was looking slightly disturbed now. It was as if no one had bothered to question his position before. “Are you not fearful, young Mr. Watson?”

John decided disturbed was better than murderous and continued. “You’ve made your point as a figure of authority and power, I get that. But then you admitted to caring about my well-being. That rather diminishes the say you have over me, I think.”

Holmes scowled and tapped his sword against the ground. “Just because I need you alive, Watson, does not mean I need you unharmed. You will be best to remember that.”

“Yeah, but I think you don’t really want to hurt me.”

“And what, pray tell, gives you that inclination?”

John, for the first time since their conversation began, looked away from the man, unsure of himself. The man did have a sword, after all. Perhaps it was a bit stupid of him to reveal his hand. Either way, it was too late to back out now. “Um, that woman who got me on the ship… She had a weapon, and she knew how to use it. I think if you wanted to hurt me, you would have let her do it.”

For some odd reason, the Captain’s expression -that had been darkening since the moment John opened his mouth- smoothed out and looked almost pleased. “As I said, young Watson. Your reputation precedes you.”

With that, the man turned around and walked out of the room, using his gold hilted sword as a decorative walking stick.

*

Sherlock was annoyed with John for falling asleep on him -he was much less interesting with his face relaxed and expressionless- but admittedly if Sherlock had stayed much longer in the tiny room, it would have been morning. Sherlock had gleaned much more information from his overnight visit. Namely, John wanted to be a physician when he grew up, he had a temper that was kept on simmer at all times, and he did not know the first thing about holding a short blade. That last one was proven by Sherlock revealing one of his many hidden weapons to observe John’s opinion of such things. He did not seem overly concerned to see it. In fact, when he had requested to hold it himself, he gave it right back to Sherlock after slashing it through the air a few times. The boy, for all intents and purposes, trusted Sherlock not to harm him and expected the same from John.

Stupidity, or intuition?

He had seemed so cautious, when Sherlock first entered his room. Now, on only his second visit, John was relaxed to the point of falling asleep. And after Sherlock had shown him a knife!

On the way back to his room, Sherlock hung the keys back on the hook from which he stole them near Mycroft’s quarters. No one would have any reason to believe they had ever left their place, so long as Mycroft was asleep when Sherlock tiptoed down the hall. Sherlock had not thought of a convincing lie as to why he would need John’s keys, but he was not caught so it was of no consequence. 

Sherlock snuck back in his room just minutes before he began hearing the morning crew start to mill about the ship. Sherlock was officially assigned to the morning crew, but the night crew would occasionally beg his help if the waters were too dangerous for their men. This was because Sherlock was the only component rigger on this ship (Donovan was the night rigor and it was a miracle she had yet to die), and perhaps in the world. Case in point, Mycroft allowed him to climb the ropes and knot the rigging in almost any weather, something he would not do unless his safety was absolutely assured. Mycroft was an overbearing idiot who Sherlock would not listen to if he was the last man alive, though the fact still stands.

Speaking of overbearing idiots... While Sherlock was not required to participate in any nightly activities he was expected to show up for his duties during the day. Lestrade has no issues with dragging Sherlock out by his ear if he had to. Sherlock usually shows up without complaint as his work is about the only thing that kept him sane and sober. Unfortunately, his work was surrounded by people that would really be better off galavanting back to England and marrying someone to match their intellect. Such a workplace occasionally put Sherlock off.

Sherlock was not looking forward to listening to stupid people today. It would be especially hard to absorb any of their idiocy with his mind focused on a singular John Watson.

*  
By noon that day, John was less sure he was going to meet an untimely death than he was the night before. The Holmes character from earlier that morning was much less death-oriented than John had expected. And more British. John had fully expected a Spanish Captain, given their location. He couldn’t help but think back to the kidnapping lady and wonder why she was so adamant to speak spanish to him if he was about a British ship. Perhaps Sherlock would know, if he comes back.

When he woke up next to a man peering down at him with a John had sort of thought he was in for a beheading before the man opened his mouth. He didn't know why the Captain wanted to capture John of all people, and he was pretty sure he didn’t want to. Just because the Captain didn’t want to hurt didn’t mean he had to like him. 

Whatever the reason, that little bit of insight gave John hope of getting off the ship. He wasn’t so delusional as to think he was going to somehow get back to Barcelona, but if he could find some way to leave his cell while they were docked he might have a chance of escaping. The Captain had even given him orders not to leave his room, implying there was a way out without permission. 

It seemed rather silly, now, that John had assumed he was going to die anytime soon. Killing him right off the bat wouldn’t have been useful for anybody involved.

John didn’t see what the use of the visit was. In the heat of the moment, John had assumed it had to do with intimidation or threat, but that wasn’t the real purpose of the visit at all. By the way Holmes’ expression changed in a blink of an eye to complete composure (and maybe even approval?) at the end of his visit, John couldn’t help but think he had passed some sort of test by throwing his threat back in a dangerous man’s face. 

Or perhaps he was imagining things and the man left just because he couldn't stand the sight of John’s face any longer. Who knows. All John knew for sure was that he wasn’t scheduled to die today, and that was good enough for him.

“Hoo hoo!” A knock on the door and a friendly call intruded on John’s thoughts. It sounded like Mrs. Hudson was here to deliver him lunch. She was down for breakfast too, which was his first introduction to her. 

Mrs. Hudson was a kind old lady who didn’t seem to have any place on a pirate ship. She was mothering and sweet to John -asking him if she could get him anything else and was he feeling alright, deerie?- and even patted John’s head as she walked out the door.

It struck John as very odd that Mrs. Hudson insisted on knocking when she was the one with the key, but he supposed it suited her. 

“Come in!” John called, getting up from his wooden chair. Mrs. Hudson bustled in with a tray of a stew of some sort (she was appalled when John had told her Sherlock had only brought him bread and water last night) and placed it on the desk. The simple movement reminded John of Sherlock’s first time seeing him, placing the tray without thinking as he studied John with what he has not dubbed the “Sherlockian Stare”. He quickly shook the thought out of his mind.

“How are you, John?” Mrs. Hudson said, looking very much like a mother who hadn't seen her son in a fortnight. “You must be bored to tears.” 

John shrugged, picking up the spoon beside the bowl and studying it. It might not have been real silver, but it sure was shiny.

“Well, I think I’ll bring you some parchment and something to write with tomorrow. I just can’t stand the thought of you sitting down here at all hours with nothing to do.” Mrs Hudson sat down on his bed, just as she had after making it this morning. “When I was a young one I loved to write letters. All I did was write, write, write. My friend in Bath said she would stop sending her letters; she had gotten two in one day, you see! I told her that I would send her letters if I wanted to, but my oh my she was in a right state…”

John was content to let Mrs. Hudson’s words wash over him as he ate. It was comforting to have someone to talk to that didn’t speak with ten layers of meaning behind their words, even if he wasn’t doing much talking. John got the feeling that both Sherlock and Captain Holmes spoke with layers of implications John couldn’t even begin to pick up on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who is your favorite character so far? I love writing Mrs. Hudson personally.
> 
> ... Yes, Mycroft's umbrella was replaced with a large sword. Does that really surprise you?


	4. A Fair Exchange

Sherlock was standing outside the kitchen waiting to be given something suitable to bring John for dinner. After Mrs. Hudson chewed his ear off about the less than quality meal he provided yesterday, she insisted on making the food herself to ensure John’s health. Being the cook of the Amihan, it stood to reason that she would care about such things. 

“I don’t know why he puts you in charge of such things, dearie. You wouldn’t know a square meal if I placed one in front of you,” Mrs. Hudson said as she pushed open the kitchen door and stepped out. Apparently, a “square meal” consisted of a slice of chicken, some peas, and some mashed potatoes. It was a good thing Mycroft liked Mrs. Hudson, or else such an irrational waste of food would surely be rebuked. 

“Nothing of this meal is geometric, I hope you realize,” Sherlock replied, pretending to put the food under great scrutiny before taking the tray.

Mrs. Hudson chuckled and patted him on the shoulder. “You run along now. John just can’t wait to see you.”

Sherlock turned away with a nod, not fully processing her words. It took him a few steps for his brain to catch up with his ears, his thoughts already away from the kitchen lady’s rambles and back on John. When Sherlock realized what had been said, he looked behind him with a questioning glance, but Mrs. Hudson was already back in the kitchen, humming a tune.

John? _Wanting_ to see him? What a curious concept.

*

John was glad Mrs. Hudson had given him something to write on. He wasn’t keen on writing letters, but he did have a lot on his mind and decided to use the paper as more of a journal than something to be signed and sealed.

He was rather sick of thinking about escaping. He had spent half the day wondering if he could get a hold of a weapon and convince people he had the gall to use it. John was frustrated with his situation and it hurt him terribly to think about his family, but he wasn’t in the habit of hurting people, especially if they had promised his safety. And even if John could get a knife in his hand and the mindset to use it, he wouldn’t know the first thing about wielding it. Sherlock had said as much when John was swiping around his blade. 

John had been tempted to keep the knife when it was unquestioningly handed over to him, but he knew Sherlock knew much more about swordsmanship than he did and he could have relieved John of the knife at any time. Sherlock’s choosing to hand it over was a sign of trust, and John was not one for taking trust lightly.

John didn’t really know why he felt obligated to maintain his trust. Sherlock was, after all, a pirate aboard the ship carrying him out to sea. He had strange mannerisms and was grossly impolite at the best of times. The boy didn’t really have much reason to like Sherlock.

Except for the fact that the man was bloody brilliant.

Every time Sherlock enlightened John to another of his ‘deductions’ John could feel himself falling deeper into the rabbit hole. It wasn’t just that he was mesmerized by the cleverness of it all, he was well and truly impressed that anyone would pay close enough attention to him to figure that out. On land, John was used to being ignored. It was a certain skill of his father’s - ignoring him - and something that he had come to expect from all adults. 

Before John could delve too much into that rabbit hole of thought, Sherlock arrived with his dinner. “Hello,” Sherlock said in greeting, carrying the food tray through the door. Once he was in the room with the door closed behind him, he glanced around the room before scowling at something invisible on the floor. “Mycroft.”

John looked up from the paper he had begun rolling up, hoping the pirate wouldn’t deduce that his parchment held musings of a Sherlockian subject matter. 

“What’s a Mycroft?”

Sherlock blinked at the floor for a couple more seconds then looked back up at John with such glee that John was worried he had said something indecent. “Merlin. Can I please tell him you said that?”

“What? No!” John protested, though now he was grinning too. “I didn’t know Mycroft was a person!”

“Evidently.” Sherlock put down the tray of food, something much better than yesterday’s dinner. Sensing John’s surprise, Sherlock added, “Mrs. Hudson insisted. Now, back to Myroft.”

“Um, yeah.” John shrugged, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t be too upset by incorrectly deducing something when he said- “The only person that was down here was the Captain, so…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I know your brain has the capacity of a teaspoon, but an effort of thought once and a while would be nice.”

John shoved a forkful into his mouth and blinked up at Sherlock.

“Captain Holmes, as I am sure you were introduced to him as, is Mycroft. My insufferable brother.”

“You’re the Captain’s brother?!”

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock groused. “Blood is the only thing that relates us, I hope you realize. He is an absolutely intolerable human being and should not inflict his presence on any living creature.”

“From what Mrs. Hudson tells me, people say the same about you.”

“Yes well. I don’t go around being the most powerful man alive, now do I.”

“The most powerful man alive? Isn’t that a bit of an overstatement?” John thought back to Mycroft’s ‘I’m going to kill you if you don’t obey, oh by the way if you need anything just give me a call’ speech. 

“Well, he certainly is the richest, in any case. And about half of the world owes him a favor. That counts as power in my books.”

“I wonder what he wants with me,” John mused. “I don’t have anything to offer the most powerful man alive.”

“So it would seem. I have been trying to figure that out myself, but I fear I have come up short with any enlightenment of the situation.”

John stood up and put his hands on his hips. “I could always tell you what he told me.”

“And what do you want for the information?” Sherlock said with a raised brow, fully aware that John was issuing a deal, not a blind fork-over of information.

John grinned at Sherlock with a mischievous glint in his eye that spoke to his next words. “I want to get out of this blasted room.”

*

“And then he said, ‘Your reputation precedes you,’ _again_ and strutted away with his nose in the air!”

Sherlock nodded his head, thinking about all the things Mycroft could have meant by such a phrase. There was only one clear thing to be said about his interaction.

“It is obvious Mycroft knew who you were before you were captured, enough so to catch a glimpse of your reputation despite your profile as a common person. The question is, why?”

“Beats me.” John shrugged --something that he does excessively, Sherlock noted. “I figure it has something to do with my father. You know, him being ‘not poor’ and all.”

Sherlock thought that was highly unlikely, but he decided to explore the possibility anyway. “What does your father do for a living?”

“I don’t really know. He travels a lot and has to have business meetings all the time. My sister says he’s doing something under the table but I think she just says that to rile him up.”

What a useless bit of information. “What did your mother do?”

John got that far away look in his eyes, just like he always did when Sherlock mentioned his mother. “She wanted to be a doctor.”

“Yes, that is what fuels your ambition to be involved in the medical field, of that I am sure. I was wondering what she actually did.”

John looked a little hurt by Sherlock's words, but he squared his shoulders and tried to cover it up. “Back when we were bouncing from town to town in Britain, my mother made a friend in Selby. She told my mother she could guarantee her a job as a school teacher so long as she could stick around long enough. Dad told my mother we had to be packed by the end of the month and she couldn’t take the job. Needless to say, we… um, left without her.”

John shifted from foot to foot, not meeting Sherlock’s eye.

“It is very uncommon for the children of the family to go with the father when the family is split,” Sherlock prompted after a moment of silence.

“Yeah, there wasn’t anything legal about it.” John continued to inspect the floor. “In the end, he just said, ‘Come on. We’re leaving.’ and my mother didn’t pack a bag. We never talked about it again.” John turned his face away and blinked rapidly. “When… When I said goodbye and she didn’t even say it back. My dad called her a heartless bitch for that and she called him a money whore. And then we left. I was four.”

Sherlock felt distinctly out of his depth, standing in front of a boy whom he had come to know as an anomaly. Living on the Amihan rather ensured Sherlock did not have to deal with tears --except for Hooper’s, but she was soft-hearted so it hardly counted. John was anything but soft-hearted. From what Sherlock had gathered, he was brave and willing to put up a fight when necessary, but not to a stupid extent. He was strong, and smart enough to use that to his advantage.

Sherlock, for lack of a better word, respected John. And people Sherlock respected did not cry.

John broke all of his rules. After setting sail with Mycroft all those years ago, Sherlock promised he would not concern himself with the affairs of human beings. He left the life he knew determined to forgo domestic life once and for all. All people were stupid and they used their stupidity to hurt each other in stupid ways. Sherlock did not miss life on land.

Now John was standing in front of him and reminding Sherlock of his old life. How he would ask rude questions and make his classmates cry. How an unsuspecting bystander would scowl at him when he told them exactly what the stain on their shirt or the dirt under their fingernails meant. Sherlock boarded the Amihan to escape all of that. Why had Mycroft forced upon him the very thing he was hoping to never live through again? He hurt people over and over, and he didn't understand how he did it. And now he'd hurt John.

Sherlock shook himself out of his thoughts. Now was not the time. Now was the time to fix John. 

The part of himself that existed in a Mind Palace somewhere inside a phenomenal brain flew through halls and down corridors and into and back out of countless rooms. He had not delved so far back in his memory in ages, and it was going to take some time to find what he was looking for. After searching for what felt like minutes, but was really only a second or two, Sherlock flung open the door to his mother’s bedroom. Suddenly, Sherlock was eight years old again and his mother was opening her arms to him saying “It’s all right, love. It’s okay.” Sherlock watched as she stepped towards him, arms outstretched.

Sherlock blinked rapidly, pulling himself out of his memory. John was looking at his with an unreadable expression. 

“Sherlock?” His voice was quiet and broken. Sherlock never wanted to hear his name said like that again.

Outwardly, Sherlock did not respond to John’s tone. Instead, Sherlock simply raised his arms a fraction and turned out his palms towards John. It was going to be the closest thing he would get to an invitation.

At the small show of compassion, John’s face, which had been carefully constructing itself back into a mask of indifference despite his fractured voice, crumpled and he stepped forward into the embrace.

Sherlock folded his arms around the child, offering no untrue placations but all of the comfort he had to give. He lifted one hand to hold John’s head against him, just like his mother used to. John tightened his grip and buried his face in Sherlock’s chest.

"I'm sorry," John mumbled between tight, gasping breaths, pressing his face farther into Sherlock.

"Don't be." Sherlock rubbed John's back soothingly and told the child truthfully, "You have nothing to be sorry for."

After a minute or so of silence, John pushed away. His face was getting redder by the second when he looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze. "I am sorry. I don't know why I did that. I haven't cried about Mum in ages."

Sherlock searched John's expression for any semblance of deceit, wondering if perhaps John was poking fun at Sherlock's ineptitude. When he found nothing he replied carefully, "I assure you, you did nothing wrong. It was I, after all, who dredged up bad memories"

"Well, yeah, I guess. But I was the one who cried all over you."

Sherlock hadn't though about that. He supposed a child's poor emotional state implied an inconvenience, though he did not see it worth in apologizing for it. In an effort to quell John's upset, he responded. 

"I suppose that makes us even then, yes?"

In spite of his blotchy face and tear tracks, John broke into a shaky grin. "Yeah?"

"I think so."

"Sherlock?" John questioned, looking a fair bit happier than before. He even looked a little... mischievous. Sherlock knew what question was coming.

"Yes, John."

"Does that mean you're still going to get me out of this cell tonight?"

"Indeed it does. You understand you must return before daybreak?"

"Yeah, yeah. I just want to stretch my legs and look around and stuff."

Sherlock snorted at John's attempt at innocence and made his way to the door. "Oh, but of course. In that case, I will see you later tonight."

"See you!" John chirped as the door swung shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so we are all on the same page, I do not believe crying is something to be "fixed" as Sherlock thinks. It is a healthy way to express ones emotions! This is simply a mentality that I believe suited Sherlock in the present situation.
> 
> *
> 
> Question and critique are always welcome!


End file.
